


When old scars refuse to heal

by Leptailurus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Past Character Death, References to Depression, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 00:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leptailurus/pseuds/Leptailurus
Summary: Angela Ziegler has decided to heed Winston’s call and heads to Gibraltar, taking on a small job as a doctor and lecturer at the local university to be able to support the recall. Her start is rushed and stressful and not quite what she hoped for, but she wants to brave it for Overwatch. Meanwhile, Fareeha Amari, having more or less lost sight of Mercy over the past 15 years has come to Gibraltar to finally join Overwatch - and win the affection of a certain doctor. However, little does she know that Mercy has bitterly sworn to herself never to love again. Mercy’s emotions threaten to spiral out of control as Pharah tries to desperately change her mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very angsty, dark fic. Please be aware of that and avoid it if that is nothing you want to read. 
> 
> This work is partially inspired by someone whose emotional state I witnessed when they were in the same situation as Mercy is in this work. That was a couple of years back, but it was an interesting, yet very sad experience. 
> 
> I also promise you this has nothing to do with half-recent deaths in my family and is not reminiscent of that. This work was started many months before these events occurred. I promise, it did not hurt me to write this any more than empathy for the characters I write usually does.
> 
> Lastly, apologies. I’m still very busy with work and trying not to burn out. Writing is therapeutic but rarely possible, either because of time or because of emotional barriers. 
> 
> The fic will be posted in parts, but it is completely written, meaning I won’t abandon the updates this time (and I haven’t completely abandoned old updates, but I have to get into the stories again and this was easier to pick back up).
> 
> For those who are interested in personal updates: My brother is now in a clinic undergoing therapy. It’s a huge relief for the time being.

One-hundred and fifty pairs of eyes are looking at me, sending various expressions, moods, and attitudes my way. Boredom, curiosity, distraction, absent-mindedness and impatience are the first ones I can pick out of the emotional onslaught of which I am the focal point.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, my own voice sounding alien to me through the speakers of the auditorium. “I’m doctor Angela Ziegler and for the upcoming weeks, most of your neurosurgery lectures will be delivered by me. However, we do have some guest professors coming in for a couple of days during this semester.”

I hit a button on the panel and the presentation I have so meticulously prepared appears on the screen. The room feels vast and oversized to me – not because of its measurements, but because of the thick, palpable wall between me and the students in front of me. I had imagined I’d feel less alienated and more relaxed than I have during other presentations. After all, these are just students and I do not have to deal with the critical, piercing gazes of those that I get to speak to on eye level at the conferences where I’m presenting my hypotheses and work in a professional environment. However, my memories on what it is like to teach must have become distorted over time, because this distance between me and students is new to me… I am not sure I can cross the gap so easily these days - not after so much has happened in a tumultuous past.

“I will briefly introduce myself,” I clarify and the first lines of my curriculum vitae appear on the screen with a click of a button. Captured in the bright square, I can see my life, stripped bare and sterile to be laid out in letters and numbers, the crime of omission hidden in the blank spaces.

I hear the occasional soft gasp by the mathematically apt when they match my age to my achievements, but the others do not wake up until the word ‘Overwatch’ is revealed. It appears exactly once, insignificantly wedged between university visits, jobs and missions in the Middle East. Every line of my CV is of the same size and nearly the same length, just as if that was true for the importance of each step as well.

I am relieved when I get to the last line – the line that brings me here with these students. A line that is surrounded by blank spaces that should not be there. I want to challenge the sharper minds in the room, the ones that are turning to their seat neighbors at this moment, pointing out how much closer we are in age than they would have anticipated. I want to challenge them to think about whether it makes sense that given the achievements I have listed in my past, I would really become a teaching professor at a small, insignificant university in the middle of nowhere. I want them to locate the line that is not printed right under the last one – a line that should be there, but cannot be.

‘since 2076 – Agent for Overwatch, illegally reinstated in Gibraltar’.

\---

The café is always full and every time I come here, I order egregious amounts of coffee, tea and pastries to be allowed to stay seated with my books and notes and laptop. It’s far from ideal out here, between the coffee-bean culture on the walls, the socializing at the other tables, the clanking of cutlery and the grinding of the coffee machines.

Yet, it’s the only place I found in my short search for space and security that was suitable to my needs – the only place where I could open my books and prepare my lectures without being surrounded by either hospital staff and administrators, the thick, dark walls of my temporary apartment, or the uncomfortable stares of students that have to share library space with me.

This place, with its fabric napkins, finely worked spoons and triangular saucers is a notch too pricey for students and a good deal too young for most of the hospital staff – at least for those on a decent payroll. I can hide in my corner and let the waitress remind me when it is time to order another drink so I can keep my table. Money is not an issue, exactly – not currently. I have easily spent enough in this café this month to challenge the meager rent for my temporary apartment, but that is irrelevant. The looseness of my bills is probably the reason my books, laptop and scribblings are tolerated in this unfitting ambience.

The noise does not bother me too much anymore, either. It only ever takes a few minutes for me to dive into my own world of nerves, electronic circuits, vessels and half-organic cross-connectors and forget what is around me. In silent agreement, the waitress reminds me to buy a small something every now and then and moves me to the smallest table as soon as it is free, so the big ones can be left for less parasitic guests. We get along well in a quiet, respectful symbiosis.

Whenever someone stops by and asks if the chair across from me is free, I welcome them to sit down and then make every impression I can to clarify that I am not available for small talk. Looking so foreign in here helps with that – I try my best to sound as Swiss and incapable of speaking any other language as I possibly can, putting my German lecture books on display and keeping the English literature on the screen where no one can see it, as there is a wall behind me.

I stop noticing who is coming and going. Occasionally I register a presence opposite of me, but I am too stressed and pressed for time to care. Lectures need to be ready to go and I have gotten rusty with explaining those procedures that have slipped far away from my daily work. Once the lectures are written, I still need to dive into the details of highly specialized surgical operations which need to be planned, then evaluate equipment and medication, study cases, and assign paperwork to my coworkers and myself … and I only have a few moments for this - from afternoon until early evening every day before I need to rush out again and focus on secret missions that cannot officially exist.

“May I take a seat?”

I quietly gesture at the chair, not even looking up from my screen and decide to pull the foreigner card. “Natürlich.”

I pull an image from a book into my lecture slide with my finger on the screen, place and resize it and add a caption. I’m on a roll – I won’t let anything take me out of this. Luckily, this first lecture preparation will hold for the semesters to come and I will have more time to relax eventually. I finish my coffee, thinking that maybe I should switch to tea soon before I get a heart attack from overdosing on caffeine.

“Do you need a refill?” my table-mate asks.

She throws me off my concept – what was I about to do again? Get to the nerves first or the blood vessels? Didn’t I just find an image that I could use? I try to ignore her.

“I have to pick up my order, anyway,” she adds.

Apparently she is not picking up on how I am ignoring her, so I answer without looking up: “It’s a mocha, they don’t have refills for it.” I realize my mistake a second too late. It should have been something like “Tut mir leid, ich verstehen kein Wort,” or at least “Das war kein normaler Kaffee.” But between preparing a lecture in a foreign language and the surrounding buzz, my native tongue has somehow escaped me.

“I know,” she says, just above the general noise level of the place. “I know a good mocha when I see it.” There is a pause. “So, can I buy you another? We are sharing a table...”

I keep my gaze firmly on the screen, but my fingers stopped moving, lost between the keys and the blinking cursor. Unbelievable! I am making every impression that I want to be left alone and this woman just won‘t shut it?! Do I look like I am here to be chatty? An impatient rage wells up in me – I am stressed, I don’t have time for this, and I certainly did not invite this.

I brace myself, trying to keep ahold of my internal reminder that it is appropriate to be polite to the guests of a café that has cut me a lot of slack lately, no matter how much that customer might annoy me personally. I remind myself that there is always a chance that a colleague or student whose faces I have not committed to memory yet might witness any raging outburst, if I have one, despite my semi-careful pick of the location. I’d better keep it down – but still, this is not acceptable!

I look up, muscles tense and heart pounding with a sudden, inappropriately strong anger, ready to put the lady in her place, but the voice that comes out of me is nowhere close to the restrained rage I imagined. It’s full of surprise instead.

“Fareeha?!”

I recognize her immediately – those dark, narrow eyes, the raven hair and expressive eyebrows. Other features, those that had begun to emerge in her late childhood have become more distinct – the straight line of her jaw, the shape of her cheek bones and the that perfectly symmetrical nose – it is definitely her. She looks strong, healthy and confident, from the bright shine in her dark eyes to the muscles she has evidently grown.

She lifts a hand to her mouth to chuckle – but her amusement at my reaction is good-natured and friendly. The light from the afternoon sun hits her cheek, right where she has a distinct tattoo that is so similar to Ana’s, but different. The ray of sun illuminates her soft skin and reflects off the golden beads in her hair.

‘She has gotten so beautiful,’ is all I can think.

“One medium spicy roast, black, for Pharah!” the barista calls before I can say anything.

“That’s me,” Fareeha says and gets up. “I’ll be right back.” Her voice has gotten deeper, her accent a little less thick, but there is something that swings beyond the coloration of the sound that intrigues me. The pitch and tone fits her – as she is now – so perfectly. Low, clear, distinct, confident - she must have gotten that from Ana. Indeed – little Fareeha has grown up into a tall, young woman with a very intriguing voice and, as I can tell now while she is getting her drink, a physique that would be useful for a lecture on muscles.

I watch her talk to the barista, her movements controlled and poised. She has an undeniably strong aura around her – the kind that makes you want to give her space and not get too close, not out of fear, but out of respect. And she retains that distinct vibe, even though she is dressed so casually in simple, tight jeans, a loose white shirt with a draped neckline, a sporty green jacket, a small golden necklace and high-heeled, black boots. Maybe she so impressive because of that style –frankly, she is rocking that look. All she needs is a pair of sunglasses to perfect it.

I suddenly feel shabby and insignificant in my corner. I did not have time to put much thought into my outfit today – and why would I have? For the most part of the day, even in the lecture, it was hidden under my lab coat anyway. Now, I feel a wave of regret about my oversight. My choice of black linen pants with a white belt and a simple, yellow-patterned shirt seems thrown-together and simple. The tailored white jacket does not help – it makes me look like a med even outside of the hospital. Luckily that garment is draped over the chair behind me right now, pretending it does not exist. It is too hot outside, anyway, even though Fareeha looks cool and fresh, despite wearing her jacket.

She returns with her coffee and I realize that I have spent so much time contemplating her, I haven’t even begun to consider what I am going to say to her when she is back.

“Your mocha is being made,” she says as she sits down, setting her own steaming mug onto the table in front of her. Her eyes are two dark orbs, unfathomable, tearing into my blue ones, which I know to tell tales.

I think it is starting to dawn on Fareeha that I am still totally out of it because she suddenly appeared here, fifteen years older and grown into a young woman with the unmistakable shadow of life experience in her eyes. She must certainly have noticed that all I have said so far is her name.

“Angela…?” A ghost of confusion – a mere crackle in her confidence – sweeps over her face.

“I’m-“ I begin, “…a little surprised.” It is really all I can manage to squeeze out at that moment and I don’t recognize myself in this loss for words. I fish in my mind for anything conversational to attach to this statement and come up with: “I did not know you were here.”

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” she says in a casual tone – as if that topic did not imply she might have joined a secretly reinstated, illegal organization in the underground, thwarting the Petras Act and risking her life, career and safety in the process.

“Hm… so your dream seems to be coming true belatedly and under much different circumstances – arguably not what you imagined?” I reply carefully, seeking confirmation that she is really aware of the reason I am here. It occurs to me, right after I say that, that despite an initial feeling of familiarity, I have no idea what side she is on. She might as well be a spy, stripping me for information. She’s always been keen on following the rules and this recall is explicitly against the rules.

She smiles subtly and shakes her head, those golden beads bouncing. “I’m star-struck, Mercy,” and there is an almost juvenile excitement in her voice. “I never thought I’d ever get the chance again! And now, here I am, where I always dreamed of being stationed. And to make it all better, I run into you.” There, somewhere beyond the strength and confidence, is a glimpse of that girl that couldn’t hear enough stories about Reinhardt and pestered McCree about giving her shooting practice. The emergence of Fareeha’s inner child relaxes me a little.

“If only Ana could see you. She’d be so proud,” I realize.

She frowns at that. “I doubt it,” and I realize I have hit a sore spot. She was too young to see beyond Ana’s words and read her actions instead – too inexperienced to understand that while Ana was always worried about Fareeha’s safety, she was equally impressed by her willpower, skill, determination and dedication. She blamed herself for failing at waking the wish in her daughter to lead a calm and normal life… instead, she and the rest of us managed to accidentally inspire her to want to follow in her mother’s dangerous footsteps. Yet, however ‘wrong’ it may have seemed for a mother to condone this path, beyond the reprimanding lectures about how she should head for a more ‘decent’ career, there was always a touch of pride in Ana’s eyes. Fareeha had probably never noticed it and only ever registered her mother’s verbally offered displeasure.

Regardless, this is the wrong moment to touch on such a sensitive issue, so I let it slide. Instead, I close my books and my laptop and lean on the table, giving her my full attention. “Now, where have you gone to secretly grow into such an impressive young woman?”

“Seeing you, I do wonder when I even had the time to grow up. Judging by your looks, it is still 2060.”

I smile for the blatant compliment and reply: “I have my secrets.” 

The barista calls out my mocha and Fareeha excuses herself to get up and fetch it. Before she leaves, she slips out of her jacket, revealing that under the very short sleeves of her shirt, she is not only fitted with nice biceps, triceps and other muscles, but carries the subtle scars of ten years or so of combat. I must have been the only fool who did not notice her as she walked in: She makes heads turn in the café just by walking past - but I have the feeling she is either not quite aware of it or does not care. She embodies an intrinsic coolness that makes me feel all kinds of weird.

I do not know how she got here, into this particular café, but she is probably excited and relieved that we are both alright and, while having lost sight of each other, getting the unique chance to reconnect. As the veteran, I should have been the one buying coffee for her, but by switching the roles, she has, if anything, made clear that the perceptible age gap between us has all but disappeared – that we are too old to see five or six years as an insurmountable distance, and that we now meet on equal ground instead. We used to be people of different generations, but that is in the past.

She returns with my mocha, shifting her hips carefully to pass between the chairs and tables that are set so close to each other here that they require some involuntary dancing. I smile genuinely, finally getting over my surprise – and thankful for the gift of coffee that this new and old friend brings me to break the ice after years of having lost sight of each other.

She sets the coffee down in front of me, looking at me for a beat or two. “I forgot how beautiful your smile was, Angela.” In return, her smile as she says this nearly blows me away. I cannot help but wonder at my own brains - I know I am tired and stressed and can’t think straight, and for all I know, Fareeha Amari is just being friendly – it‘s very strange that I have no idea how to deal with that.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update: There will be 10 Chapters.

 

I knew she would be here. Not in the café, of course, but I knew she would not ignore Winston’s call to arms, no matter how often she has told my mother that fighting is not a solution. On the flight to Gibraltar, I had mulled over the idea whether or not she would come here just to meet our old friends one last time and say goodbye - or to stand by their sides for the cause. I figured, after all these years, I had no chance of guessing her feelings on the recall. However, after we talk for a little I figure with her having taken a job here that is way below her skill level and having moved into a new apartment, she  _ is _ actually here to stay. It excites me. It makes everything I want so much more reachable.

I can, of course, see the stress and tiredness in her gaze. I understand that starting anew in her profession, no matter how much of a prodigy she may be, is an enormous task. Yet, beyond that gray veil on her features, she is the same. She has barely even changed, retained that ever-young look and intelligent twinkle in her eyes, which are still the color of the Mediterranean Sea.

I notice some subtle shifts in her behavior – awoken, no doubt, by whatever life has taught her in the last fifteen years. For example, she does not hesitate to abandon her books and scribbles to catch up with me. Back then, studying was all she ever seemed to do outside of missions - and that undoubtedly is one of the secrets to her professional success. The past years must have shifted her feelings about what is important in life, or at least in a situation such as this one. She is dressed a little differently, too, has her hair in a ponytail and her gestures seem a little less wild than they used to be – like she has put the endless energy she always seemed to have under control. Her eyes, however, are still drowning in intelligence, windows to the ever-running thoughts in the back of her mind. It always seemed to me that she could never be quite there in the moment – like one conversation wasn’t ever enough for her to be fulfilled. She always had to run a whole different thought process on the side. It still looks that way.

Whatever is going on in her head, it seems to make her a little impatient. It does not take much more than two beverages before she makes her first attempt to shake me off, her gaze shifting to the books and laptop in her bag. The subtleness of that look would have escaped young Fareeha back then, but is very obvious to Pharah today. She is stressed, waiting for the right moment to slink away under a pretext, as she has done so often. And yet she surprises me… by skipping the pretext.

“I wish I could spend more time,” she says with unusual directness and waves at the waitress at the same time. “But I have a ton of lectures to prepare - and if I don’t get groceries soon, I will have to consider hospital food. We all know nobody sane wants to ever do that.” The joke is genuine, as is her urgency to work, but I have long since decided that I will not let her off so easily.

“That’s alright, I need to get some things myself,” I say swiftly and reach into my jacket pocket to fish for my sunglasses. “Let’s go together and you can tell me about your missions in the Middle East,” I suggest with casual ease. She seems surprised that I am not letting her part our ways on her command. Yes, I have changed as well, Dr. Ziegler. For a moment, she does not even respond – then she nods and gets up, accepting my terms.

I wait for her to pay her leftover bill and from what I can tell, she dishes out a lot of money. Given the moderate pricing at the cafe, she either had a huge meal or has been sitting here for quite a while. She hesitates before she slips into her light coat and grabs her bags. With my eyes on her perfect curves, I wait by the door, safely hidden behind my sunglasses. Her tailored white coat would have made anyone else look smaller or bulkier … but she looks, as ever, very lean, very feminine with her wide hips and well-defined chest.

She retained that natural kindness in her movements – without ever losing that edge of authority that my mother always swore she was probably born with. I do not know what it is that makes her seem that way, but the jacket only enhances it. Lab coats had the same effect on her back then, made me stop in my tracks and wonder at her contradictory existence, somewhere between an angelic, young woman who was driven by compassion and kindness - and a determined, capable medic that would not shy away from the battlefield, professional and cool-headed at the sight of even the worst disfigurations. My fascination only ever grew and despite the many years of separation I can feel it keep on growing still.

For the longest part of my life, she would pet me on the head in one moment and speak to me like a younger friend or sister. There was no in between and no step forward from that relationship we had. It could have gone on indefinitely that way, her being my mentor who talked to the likes of Jack Morrison and Wilhelm Reinhardt the way I wanted to, and me, forever admiring her unreachable perfection and flouncing around like everyone‘s child between Gabriel‘s legs and mom‘s reprimanding words.

We could have grown up further alongside each other, for at least as long as it would have taken me to convince my mother to let me wear that beautiful yellow-and-white symbol on my lapel and feel Mercy’s powerful ray of relief and strength on my own back. I could have become a sniper or a pilot or whatever. Her eyes could have watched out for me, too, called me ‘rookie’ and joked with Lena how she was no longer the newbie. But it was not to be so. With the end of Overwatch, I saw all my hopes and dreams crushed by people who did not understand what drove my friends and my mother. People, who could not see the beauty and dedication that was Overwatch and all its members. People, who had to crush what scared them because they could not understand it.

Had it been in my nature to give up at the face of a dead end, our story could have ended there. I could have looked for a new path. Yet, anyone who believes that policies and a good will are sufficient to balance the world, that Overwatch and its scions were no more than a stained asset of the old days, is severely mistaken. I might not have known it consciously back then, but I felt that there would always be a place for my ambitions, and so I decided not to veer too far from my path in the hopes that one day-… and now, the day had come.

As a side effect of how Overwatch was torn apart and separated, Mercy and I had to grow and go on independently. Everyone else was facing the same empty road, too. Some old ranks and connections begun to fade or lost their importance, while other professional ties grew into friendships. Some of them disappeared and others tried to keep the strings connected.

Me? I ran. So did Mercy, though she never forgot to keep in touch with her old companions. Through them, I always vaguely knew where she was - where all of them were. Somehow, just like you would not move houses without at least telling your distant cousins, a vague whisper of information bounced back and forth between what was left of the old connections. I might have stood at the rim of all of that, but I was close enough to catch the occasional news.

Years passed nearly untouched, but the feeling that the last word was not yet spoken loomed and lingered. With Winston’s call, the tension broke and a waiting avalanche that we all might have felt in the distance, but never consciously grasped, was sent rolling. I knew she had gotten the call – I knew she would be on her way and that we would all be different because life had begun to change all of us independently, some more, some less.

I was aware that the once impenetrable gap between her and me could become insignificant, if I played my cards right – and that after fifteen years of life experience, I was finally equipped to do so. The last thing I wanted to do was miss that opportunity to reach for the only ray of light this unfortunate history of Overwatch had left in its wake: The people it had shaped and changed.

I was not going to let this pass me by.

Yes, Mercy would remember Fareeha – but she would meet Pharah.

\---

When Fareeha decides she needs to walk me home, I do not have much of a case to argue – not with a laptop, a bag of books and two bags of groceries to carry. I feel embarrassed about leading her upstairs to be my mule - into what, at best, can be described as a few rooms barely fit to survive. The hot metal stairs are clanking under our feet – a dog is barking somewhere and a baby crying. We enter the shade of the corridor and she takes off her perfect sunglasses, attaching them to the chest pocket of her green jacket.

The building, with its monolithic feel, scant lighting and narrow spaces always feels like it wants to suffocate me. From all the places I have seen in my 38 years of life, this one, by far, has the least personality. A medical tent in the al-Dibdiba has more flair than this straight forward, useful iron cast. My mood drops instantly as we enter – with the first step away from sun and into the cold shadows.

I unlock the sliding door and enter a narrow corridor, directing ‘Pharah’, as she is called now, to drop the groceries wherever - because clearly, it does not even matter where they end up. There is no order and no space in this place, anyway, and no sensible indicator as to where which thing should go. The corridor is so narrow, I have to step back beyond the kitchen door – the first to the right – so she can even enter and close the door.

“I was going to say ‘lovely’… but… what exactly did they incarcerate you for?” she says, glancing at the dusty room opposite of the kitchen that is filled to the brim with still-packed boxes and some unorganized shelves - and nothing else.

I do not make a secret of my disappointment. “It’s… it belongs to the hospital. Staff-only housing.” Because I arrived on such short notice, I had to take what they could get me – spaces reserved for underpaid nurses in training, janitors and cleaning personnel. I certainly won’t stay, but given the workload and the additional strain of the  _ actual _ reason I am here, I am also fully aware that the search for a new place will have to wait until my schedule can afford it.

“No wonder you are doing all your work at a café…” She steps over the grocery bags she has put down and takes an uninvited step into the ‘living room’, admiring the view of a brick wall beyond the small window. I let her do as she pleases, squeeze into the kitchen and put whatever has to be kept cool into the small fridge below the counter, effectively blocking the door to the kitchen with the open fridge door.

“Do you need any help unpacking?” she calls out to me and I do not quite know whether she means the groceries or the yet untouched moving boxes. There is no space for the contents of either, anyway.

“I‘m fine,” I reply - because in either case, she cannot help me. There is no room in the kitchen for her to stand and help and no room for the contents of the boxes.

She returns to the doorway, watching me over the edge of the fridge door while it is open and I wonder whether she has always been this tall. In this cramped space, her height seems more graspable than before. She used to reach up to my shoulder… now I’m just above hers.

I look at the permanent stains in the sink, the rusty rack next to it and lean against the wall once I have closed the fridge door, looking up at the shadow that is her - and the dust, that seems to be everywhere, swirling around her. “I would invite you for dinner, but I don’t think I even have a second plate.” And even that plate is a gift from a nurse who took pity on me – because of how I had rushed into my current living conditions and started working right away.

Pharah frowns at the checkered plastic foil that is peeling off the bit of counter that I have and the equally tasteless flooring. Moments later, her frown warps into an almost cheeky little smile. “Looks like I have to take you out for dinner. Possibly all night, so you don’t have to stay here any longer than needed.”

I honestly cannot deny that any reason to be away from here is welcome to me, though the guilt for neglecting my duties nags on me, right in the back of my mind. I’ll have to get up very early tomorrow to make up for the lost work time. I know I tossed the books aside light-heartedly earlier, but now I can feel the weight of every page I could have turned in this past hour. And as the sun is setting over Gibraltar, time seems to shrink even further, calling us both – her and me – to consider less official duties.

When I do not move, she knocks on the metal wall, as if testing the material. “I once spent a mission on a submarine…” she muses.

“I bet it was more spacious,” I sigh, feeling frustrated, and it makes her chuckle in that sweet, good-natured tone that I last heard when I first recognized her.

“No, but it was maybe a little less cramped with stuff,” she admits.

Not like that is fair – my previous place was at least twice the size and I have, of course, accumulated some possessions - despite not bringing household items, such as plates (which I bitterly regret now). My possessions never exactly seemed like much until I moved here.

“Well, if you have a nicer place, I sure am willing to trade,” I reply bitterly.

“Hardly,“ she laughs. “I‘m bunking at the base right now. But I‘ll let you know if I find something.“

\---

The straw is blue and so is the drink – and I forgot what was in it. In the back of my mind, I can feel the guilt tingling at me, poking my brains and throwing the words ‘lecture’ and ‘staff meeting’ around. Yet, I am smiling, listening to Fareeha telling me about Egypt, Anubis and Helix and Canada.

She is sitting with her heels hooked into the cross bars near the bottom of her stool, while I have my legs crossed over Escher other and my elbow on our tall, round table, fingers stirring the ice around with the straw.

“…they did not have much to work with,” she explains at this time, “so they pulled the cross-beam right out of a truck, sanitized and cut it and used that instead. I always thought you would have liked the inventiveness of that.” There is a distinct shine in her eyes – a positive, honest excitement as she re-lives the moment in a mobile hospital. 

Yet, she seems strangely different from the girl I remember. Just like earlier in the café, that excitement makes her seem younger but while it is honest and animated, it‘s not childish. I begin thinking I have to get used to this new Fareeha. Pharah.

There is something else that is now. It seems she’s not holding back - not worrying about what she is giving away of herself. But it isn‘t carelessness - it‘s like she does not need to because she knows exactly who she is. And her smart eyes seem to be naturally aware of everything at all times. It‘s intriguing to rediscover her as a person.

She watches my hand as it plays with the straw in the ice. “I always thought of you in such moments,” she says and then pauses. I let the words sink in, trying to fathom their place in the context of it all. “But did you ever think of me?”

I stop the useless circles in my glass, aware that she does not know the weight she has pushed with these words. They make the years in the past gain such momentum and I can clearly feel their weight on me. “I always thought of everyone,” I reply solemnly and I realize that my tongue is not only heavy with memory.

“That would be like you,” she acknowledges. “To care about everyone, even if it is no longer your responsibility. But that does not necessarily mean you could always keep track.”

I look into those beautifully shaped, dark, endlessly deep eyes. “I always knew where you were,” I say. It is true. I knew she had moved on to Helix, that she had fought Anubis and become captain of her squad – and why. I did not know she had changed her name, though. And somehow, though, in all my calculations, I had not quite registered that she was still in the process of growing up when our ways last parted. In my head, she had permanently been stuck in time, somewhere in her late teens, observant and thoughtful.

Now I see how mistaken I was.

My reply makes her smile. “That is nice to hear. I always knew about your whereabouts, too.”

I look at my drink, poke the blue liquid and nod. “Still. I should have contacted you,” I admit. I would not have said it, had the blue, sugary drink not loosened my tongue. “But I did not know what to say.” It’s the first time I become aware of how deeply my guilt runs – I knew about Ana; I knew how this official end to Overwatch must have shattered Fareeha’s biggest dreams. I cared – and yet, I never acted upon it. Instead, I grabbed the nearest mission and fastest plane I could find and headed away from it all.

She chooses to ignore the comment – instead she pokes a finger against my cocktail glass. “It’s the color of your eyes, do you know that?”

I try to chuckle, but it does not sound right. I am too lost in my own regret for not having been there for her. And likewise, I am unable to understand, why she would even start on this topic. It makes me queasy in the strangest way. Maybe that is situational – being at a bar, just the two of us, talking and drinking. And maybe it is her. A woman like her would never throw casual compliments at me in such a place. If a woman like her were to pick me out to talk about my eye color, I’d be flattered and hopeful. She cannot possibly mean to be that woman, though, not with our history. And yet, I hate myself for wishing that she was.

“Not really. I suppose it’s the light,” I mumble, begging my heart to go back to the right place and stop its misplaced, nervous dance. “My eyes are not nearly as bright.”

“They always seemed that bright to me. And I could never forget the color…” she replies almost immediately and her voice is soft and sweet. Again, I get that intimate vibe as if she was a stranger and try to remind myself that we are friends, companions – with a past that is different from this moment. But it‘s tough. She is the same and yet different. She is a mystery and I am completely losing any small grasp I might have had on seeing the person she used to be.

Her finger is still lightly placed against my cool glass, inches away from the bright liquid, keeping her last words anchored to its color.

“I chose my suit in that color,” she continues. “Having a bit of you with me made me be especially careful with it.” Her voice is clear and controlled, yet soft and laced with a smile.

I look up, surprised, straight into those eyes which seem so much darker in the light of this bar - and even less graspable. Her look, her expression and everything about her is pulling at my heart. All I have to do is leave a half-forgotten past behind – and right now she is making that so easy for me.

_ Angela, you can’t mean that. _ A voice is nagging in the back of my mind.

The  _ woman _ before me is more than just beautiful. She is mesmerizing, captivating and downright tantalizing to all my senses. Everything about her looks seems to be  _ right _ . The way the shadow from her hair accentuates her cheekbones and lips. That profound expression of hers that is conveyed through the perfect interplay between her eyebrows, her chin, her nose and the tattoo on her cheek. And the things she says feel like flirting to my bamboozled head.

In that moment, I do not know whether it is the alcohol riding me, or a morbid curiosity or something entirely different – but I drop my guard and tension and to see where it gets me.

“I always knew you’d grow into an attractive young woman,” I hear myself say. “But I mostly expected you to make me jealous of your looks…” My voice trails off.

“But I am not.” She doesn‘t ask - she states it, and her gaze darts away for a moment, as if to find something else to hold on to but my face. It returns in a blink, though.

I shake my head very subtly. “No.” Not  _ of _ her, anyway. But maybe anyone who might have had her. Did she even catch that?

My gaze drops and I slip my fingers around the glass, right below hers, as if to grasp and lift it to drink. I linger; I wait and a second or two passes. Then her finger drops half an inch to touch mine. The moment is laced with tension, the lights and the music disappearing to the background of reality. Anything seems possible, good or bad, the stakes akin to Schrödinger’s famous box, and there is not turning back from the next move.

_ What are you doing?! _ I scold myself.

I can’t look up at her anymore, I don’t want to read her expression, if there is anything to read. A significant moment passes us by, and then another, making me wonder how many of these moments we can allow ourselves to ignore before the whole situation crumbles apart. I can feel the cool glass and her warm finger on top of mine and it sends a spark through me – and guilt; a whole onslaught of guilt. This isn’t right, is it?

It seems my finger moves before I consciously decide to do so – just a little, as if  _ anything _ happening could keep us in this tension longer, stretch the timeline until some inevitable end can be reached. I move my finger up and hook it softly into hers on the glass. In response, her finger turns, making the connection real and mutual.

The silence speaks more than it should, but I still cannot look up. Instead, my thumb leaves the glass and finds its way to our hooked fingers and caresses her quietly. Almost instantly, my mind warns me that she is going to pull back – that the sparkling tension I am feeling is a figure of my imagination, merely projected onto this moment by my confused, slightly intoxicated mind which wants to see things that it shouldn’t.

But she doesn’t pull back.

Nor does she do anything else. And this lack of anything is both making me nervous and confused to the very core. I figure, if this were to be going anywhere, she would already have done something – touched me or returned my caresses, or said something - anything. And if it were not, she would already have pulled back, right? This utter lack of readable response is nerve-wrecking and finally compels me to look up at her, despite all my worries about what grand mistake I might just have made.

As I lift my gaze, she is looking straight at me – and evidently has done so for a while – a smile gracing her expressive features. My hand on the table, hooked into hers, is now still, but the other one, pressed against my thigh under the table, wants to shiver with both fear and excitement. My eyes see a beautiful, attractive woman smiling at me, while my mind screams her real name at me over and over again, but I cannot see it in her features anymore. I see her lips and that expression that tears right into me, putting clouds on any clear thought I might have tried to form – she is  _ so _ beautiful. And I don’t – no, I  _ can’t _ see that child I once knew.

At a loss for anything better, I return a smile of my own, subtle and unsure. It is all I can manage. The light switches, relentlessly, from blue to purple to red, reflecting off her dark hair and flashing in the golden beads.

Without ever breaking our physical connection, she slips off her chair with calm grace - and for a brief moment, I forget to breathe. We have stepped out of the lingering stillness and something is happening. I am only vaguely capable of grasping what it may be or become.

She takes my other hand before she lets go of the glass and she tugs, pulling me off my bar stool so that I am standing before her. I am so clearly aware that she is the taller one – but it is not just that difference that makes me feel so much younger than her. Every inch of Pharah conveys to me that she is in control. In a twisted way, this moment tells me that everything about us is different now, and I am the one who needs guidance.

It’s of no use to retaliate. For hours the rational part of my brain has been weak and now, it has finally run out of reach – I cannot call it back now. Even if I wanted to tell her that this cannot  _ possibly _ be right, I am not capable of it. Before me stands a woman so fascinating and beautiful, I do not have the strength to withdraw. I cannot actually  _ feel _ any honest resistance inside of me, though I know I should really retaliate against my own feelings.

Pharah slips her arm around me, to the small of my back and pulls me close. I am expecting her to kiss me, rendering me completely lost, but she surprises me yet again. I catch a look from her eyes, calm and composed and so  _ sure _ , spiced with a touch of happiness that is conveyed by her eyes rather than her lips. She slips her other arm around me, between my shoulder blades and pulls me against her in one calm, long and slow motion.

I lay my head down, right there by her neck, and I’m engulfed in the scent of her skin. She kisses my hair, right above my temple and in my mind, I can see us standing there in the flickering light, melted together into one being, not quite knowing what we are doing and how we can fit together, but being there nevertheless.

All I know is that I cannot resist this, as quickly as it happened. And the fact that she is not kissing me yet must simply be respectful kindness on her part – because obviously I am the one struggling – and she isn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finishing this fic helped me a lot with my emotional state (that, and sleeping for 14 hours straight).   
> I do need to write more to stay emotionally healthy. I hope I can manage.

She has no idea how much I have wanted this – and for how long – and how scared I am that the part of her that evidently struggles with the whole idea, is going to decide against it. I pushed it, and yet the acceleration has caught me by surprise almost as much as her. 

She feels good in my arms, but I am aware how fragile this moment is. I could see it in her eyes – that unsure flicker, almost like a stubborn resistance, though her pupils were wide and stuck on me. It’s difficult to not mix wishful thinking and observation, but I have had so much time to hone my skills, they kick in almost naturally these days.

If I can do this right, this little light may have a chance to keep shining. There is no protocol, no mission plan to follow. I can only do whatever I perceive to be the best path, stay aware of her reactions, and marvel at where this might take us. At this time, my goal is to make her feel safe and free - and to offer her any time she may need to process the implications without letting my own ancient hopes and personal goals get in the way.

I watch her face where that initial, positive surprise is slowly replaced by a developing frown. I know this is a bit outside of the expected, but it tears at me to see her struggle much harder than I anticipated. What, if she can’t let herself go enough to allow this to happen? Who knows what invisible reigns and ropes have their hold on her? A lot can happen in fifteen years, to the point where we might even think it is wiser to fight the way we feel.

It takes another chorus from the speakers for her to hesitantly slip her arms around my waist and another few measures for her stance to relax somewhat against me. It’s a start, but not a commitment – I am not blinded enough to let my guard down. And yet, she feels perfect, nestled against me, better than I could have ever dreamed.

I could cast away that balance and let myself float free in one direction or the other. Bliss waits at one end, acceptance and cold closure on the other. But I have told myself time and time again that if I ever got this far, I would savor what I could and not bring about destruction through my own worries and fears, nor fool myself into careless elation.

Still, it’s hard to resist the temptation of just chasing for something that seems nearly within reach. A less careful part in me screams to take action, pull this fragility into a safe harbor, claiming that it is just that simple. Yet, plunging forward would be so careless: Brute force and stubbornness cannot steer this ship. I have not waited, learned, wondered, watched and practiced all these years to be foolish now. I have seen the danger in her struggle and I cannot ignore it.

It takes her a bit before she lifts her head away from my shoulder and looks up at me, still uncertain, but also intrigued. Her blue irises are just tiny rings around large, lost pupils. She has never made anything easy on herself. It’s both her strength and her curse.

I wait for three half-patient beats before I lean down and kiss her lips – just once, softly, without obligations, but all the promises I can offer. I notice the faint twitch in her reaction and it sends a jolt of worry through my heart. I take another moment, then I offer myself again, gently touching her lips with mine. She halts after a feathery light kiss, as if she is uncertain as to how to proceed. Encouraged by her confusion, I close the gap once more, but this time, she pulls back. It is less than an inch – but it still causes my heart to skip another worried beat. I know I cannot push it again, however much I want it – it would be so destructive.

She looks at me and I can feel her shallow breath against my chin. The world stands still and hinges all on Mercy. She eventually leans back in, gingerly, and our lips touch once more – I can barely hold back a sigh of relief. Another feathery light kiss, followed by a second one… and then, with the third, she pushes forward a little harder, her eyes drifting shut. Mine follow suit and I let her take her sweet time to continue her involuntary  _ spiel _ of almost withdrawing before trying again. Finally, she lets herself go and we melt into a long, sweet and exciting kiss.

Her lips are soft and curious, mixing experience with that careful step onto unknown terrain. We are stuck for a moment, unable to find the right path to end this initial exploration. Attempts are made, but fail. I assume it is my responsibility to lead her out of this moment. Yet, it takes me three tries and another peck to her sweet, warm lips until I do so.

As we disengage, the music seems to return from the back of my perception – too loud and too disturbing. I notice people dancing nearby – too close for comfort, too wild to not bump into us eventually. It’s like something scary and hasty flares up in me, pointing out to me that this location, in its careless, lively way, could endanger what I have just grasped.

I try not to get hasty. Instead, I slide my hand into hers and send her a smile that I hope is reassuring.

“I think we should leave,” I say, knowing that because of the volume I am forced to use, I am chipping something of that fragile moment away. She nods, her blue drink forgotten. I squeeze her hand for just a moment, but there is no response from her and my throat tightens a little. Why did I not choose my location more wisely – why did I, after all the thinking I have done, rush into this without much preparation?

I pull her, gently but without room for retaliation, up the stairs and into the cool night air. Her cheeks meet the evening with a red glow. I allow her to gather her thoughts, at least some of them, but feel we need to move before the sounds from beyond the heavy doors in our backs swallows us again.

She follows me, but starts trailing behind, pulled back by her own wandering mind. I have no chance in this tug-war, so I accept the burden as luggage to carefully pull along. We reach a body of water - a fountain, round with a quiet, steady whisper, lights reflecting in it. It will do to cool the initial heat and cast out the distant music.

I turn her, pulling our hands between us and she looks up at me. She seems less lost, but not to my advantage. Her worries and uncertainties have followed us all the way out here and taken ahold of her in the cool, sobering night air.

“Pharah,” she pushes it out and I can feel the strength returning to her hands, pulling away, but yet not overpowering me. She stares at me, grasping for the right words to feed my attention. But she cannot release them before she turns her gaze away from me. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

For all my foresight, it still stings, but I cannot lose my head. She pulls back, but kindly. I don’t let her – in the blink of a moment I have to decide, holding on to her forcefully is the only thing I can come up with. It may not be the best choice.

“Let go. Please.” Sober, but weak.

I try to think quickly. “Look at me first, Mercy, so I know you are listening.”

The shake of her head is subtle, like she cannot manage more than that. It only attests to how much she is teetering on an edge, how scared she is of falling off into the wrong direction.

“I will let you go, but you owe me… a moment,” I say clearly, with far more confidence than I can possibly feel. “At least this once.” It‘s not right to hold on to her, but I have fears and worries, too, and they get the better of me.

She takes a breath, her spine straightens slowly, yet in control. She looks at me, trying to hide her weaknesses under a layer of momentary stubbornness. That, however, is irrelevant. I have her attention and my main goal should be not to mess this up and toy with my chances. I grasp this opportunity while I still can.

“It’s your decision and you know it… but don’t run from it. It’s the only thing I am asking… Don’t run. Do you promise?” I put all the weight of insistence in my voice that I can call upon.

She struggles with drawing even a breath to reply, but she manages. “Okay.”

As promised, I let go, even though it costs me all the strength in the world to do so. This may be it. My hands, chest and face are torn out of her circle, feeling unnaturally cool and incomplete. I struggle to accept this conclusion as she turns and calmly disappears in the night, not even turning around.

\---

The spell does not wear off immediately, but it fades, step by step, with every bit of distance I put between us. The smell of wet dust lingers in the streets of Gibraltar, from where or what, I cannot tell. I hear my own footsteps on the dirty ground, but the dark silence seems tame against the inner beast I am facing.

I have gotten confused, let myself slip out on the wrong waves and not turned around in time. Yet, I’m not out on open seas at this time and I can hopefully find my way back.

I struggle to keep my focus, integrate new facts and experiences into the center of my swirling thoughts. I have not been mistaken – not about her, anyway. The smiles, words, gestures and tones… the signs were not just in my imagination. But I have been gravely mistaken about myself and my own rational mind, and the weakness of my own, feeble heart.

Now, the city lights and the dire surroundings, brick walls and metal flooring, sober me up. Surrounded by beauty, I might have been useless - but now I am far from it. In a weird, almost ridiculous way, my ugly little apartment pulls me back to where I belong. 

Reality is not always pretty – but twisted, raw and sometimes unkind and blunt.

Beauty is a seducer, but it cannot exist without the harshness that is required to contrast it. And now, I need to hold on to the less pretty parts of life to keep myself whole. There is no shame in taking a step too far while being mesmerized by the unusual – and Pharah’s inherent beauty, inside and out, would classify as that. The important part is to always consider and be ready to step back.

And I  _ must _ step back. There is no future in this and no rational hope. I might be able to shake the past now, but I would be an idiot to think it won’t come back to me. And if it is too late to escape by then, my troubles might run far more deeply than I can handle.

She  _ is _ Fareeha Amari, a once headstrong girl turned observant teenager, and now a soldier, a warrior, endangering her life for others. Any initial infatuation, however strong, will fade and leave me stranded with the bare facts ohne the past. I cannot handle that. And yet, this knowledge tears me half apart. Because the overwhelming excitement, the novelty of this and the perfection that captivated me and that I cannot deny is something I long for from so deeply inside of me have taken a toll on my lonely mind. 

The knowledge that I cannot actually have it because I have my own barriers that I built over the many years, is soberingand painful. Somewhere inside, this wants to rip me to shreds.

If I was less captivated by everything she is  _ now _ , I would find it easier to remember some things. My desire to ignore everything I know to give in to this scares me. It must mean that after I thought I had finally found my path, I have lost my way anyway.

I can’t think straight. But if there is one thing I learned, it is that people are torn apart by struggles, especially if they last. I cannot afford to lose myself at this time. I need sleep and concentration and energy for the weeks, months and maybe years to come. I have no right, no time and no reason to wager over and over again while making no changes to the core of the problem at hand. I know that making a decision can provide instant relief.

And so, I make the cut I need to make and decide. This is not going to happen. If I stand firm with myself, I will be able to find sleep – because I can tell myself I have decided and drawn a final line. I claim resoluteness, strength and willpower and desperately hold on to that idea. No, Fareeha Amari and I, we are not going to be anything new, different or special.

I am certain that I am strong enough that I will not falter again - and that feeling of certainty is empowering - it carries me through the morning and all the way through the afternoon.

Until I see her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I cannot count. It's 11 Chapters. I rule.

It’s like I forgot everything about how she impacted me - for as long as I kept my distance. Now, once again my attention is stuck on the way she moves and how those intriguing eyes contemplate the world with intelligence and just the faintest hint of superiority. I forgot how every fiber of her is full of determination and inner strength. My eyes cannot seem to stay away, even sitting way behind her, keeping as much distance in Winston’s laboratory as I possibly can.

That I am tired from getting up so early in the morning to work, exhausted from everything around me being new and difficult, is not helping. I get stuck on her features over and over again, involuntarily, until I catch and scold myself. Then I repeat the cycle.

A jolt runs through me whenever she notices my captivated stares – and she does so too many times. Over and over and over again I have to abruptly turn my head – and I am always a blink too late. I am foolish and powerless enough to run into this trap repeatedly. My apologies for my shortcomings in the discussion at hand are mere pretexts, blaming the recent changes to my life, my work and previous time zone, but I can practically feel how her mind strips my fake words bare and leaves me exposed and embarrassed.

I call upon the past – the dresses Ana put on her and her child-like interests in technical details and engineering. I try to remember the way she’d quietly hide behind the door frame just to be able to listen to Reinhardt’s stories. But it does not help. It seems like I am calling upon a different, distant person from another time and not the adult woman that makes me fall to pieces.

Eventually, Winston pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger, but I barely catch the movement. “I think this is a really good start,” he says. “I think we could meet at the same time tomorrow and continue.”

Agreement. Ideas. Last questions. They buzz past me like waves of thin air. I can’t be here right now, not mentally.

“You guys all mind stayin’ for a moment?” Tracer addresses the room when silence was just about to win over. “I’ve got an idea about expanding our little group, but I’ll need a teeeensy break. Just get yourselves a drink or something!” She seems cheerful as she blinks towards the door.

I catch her before she can take another blink. “I am sorry, Lena, maybe tomorrow. I really have a lot to work on tonight,” I apologize in my best impression of regret.

She nods with all the understanding of a kind friend. “Right – you have your other job to worry about! Don’t let me keep you! I’ll talk to you when you’re all settled in – or so.” She even salutes with a sweet, genuine grin on her face.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I reply before she is gone down the hall.

I turn the other way, heading for the exit where I left my bag and coat, refusing to turn around. I try to make the best impression of a stressed, preoccupied and busy human being as I head for the door at the far end so I can make it outside into the cool air and take the dark route back home.

“I told you not to run. It’s  _ all  _ I asked.” There is accusation in her voice – and she is right behind me. My heart stops, my steps come to a halt all on their own. Her voice reaches me from a meter away and I did not even notice her. It pulls on every muscle, taking control until I can no longer move. I stand frozen as I hear her approach like the looming danger that she is to my mind.

“Please go,” I plead when she is nearly in reach. I don’t know how I can keep myself in one piece with her around.

Instead of following my plea, she steps closer yet, to stand right behind me, and I forget to breathe. Her warm arms slip around me and it feels both amazing and terrifying. She isn‘t even keeping me… not physically at least. I don‘t know what she is doing, but her grip is not forceful.

“Don’t…” I beg her, but my voice is so weak. Against my will, my body wants to melt into her soft embrace and I draw a deep breath that comes back out in shudders.

“Why not?” she asks softly. “What is so wrong about this?”

I cannot even fight her to struggle free from the loose embrace. I’m paralyzed by how much I want to disappear between her warm arms, by the unique way her scent engulfs me in the dim light of the corridor. “I …  _ can’t _ .” I force the words out. It takes all I have to not falter completely as I continue: “I  _ don’t _ love you.” I breathe to say more - something how the physicality of her approach is violating my freedom - but I can‘t. She has already made it way too clear that she can read me like a book and knows that one part of me wants exactly what she is suggesting.

 

\---

 

It may be a lie, but it still hurts. She does love me – clearly and obviously. I am not as confident as I seem most of the time, but this – this I have seen in her eyes and her body language, and not just because I was hoping for it. However, for some reason she does not  _ want _ to, and arguably, that is even more painful than not being loved. I take a heavy breath, reminding myself that my pain will get us nowhere. It only takes me a moment to compose myself, then my arms tighten a little around her unmoving frame. I am not trying to force her to stay close, but I do want her to feel how real I am. I‘m smarter than last night - if she wanted to struggle free, I‘d let her. She pulls in a long breath that I feel as the expansion of her chest, but cannot hear it.

I speak to her, softly. “I know what I am seeing, Mercy.” She probably already knows she is not hiding it too well. The way she looked at me all morning, the way we kissed – those dilated pupils and mental absences...

She slumps a little in my arms, giving in, turning her head away so I can’t read her expression over her shoulder anymore. Her breath, as she draws it, is quivering, as if she is trying to calm herself to keep from crying. I can hear her swallow as we both stand there in silence, thoughts turned inward. I keep caressing her, but she only relaxes so far – for mere moments at a time, before she realizes where she is headed and her muscles tense again to fight herself. I don‘t think she has an idea how long she is standing there, struggling, and how much patience it costs me to let her.

I should feel hurt by how much she does _not_ _want to want me_ , but most of all I am confused and worried. “Why are you fighting this so much…?” I ask her softly. I'm close to her ear, so it is intimate and calm.

“I’m just in love with your looks,” she pushes out and struggles weakly against my arms in a half-serious attempt to free herself. I loosen my grip as I promised myself I would, but she doesn‘t actually let go. She can neither make her struggles, nor her words, seem genuine. 

“No,” I protest softly, letting her know she did not convince me. “I know you’re not that shallow. You never were.”

I kiss her cheek like I am trying to comfort her. I still cannot grasp this struggle she is so wrapped up in – and if I do not really understand, I cannot possibly help her. So I try again: “Mercy, I want to understand. Why is this so terrifying to you?”

It’s true: The haunted looks that take ahold of her every now and then can only be described by this one word: Terrified. Somehow, she is as equally drawn to me as she is terrified. I never knew I could bring about such contradictory emotions – or why I would. 

She tries to push at the arms that are holding her once more, but ends up holding on to them instead when she can’t bring herself to use force against me. She is struggling to find something to say, I can feel and hear it in the way she is breathing. All I can do is wait.

“This is too much… too much to feel for a stranger,” she whimpers. “This quickly – it can only be superficial…!”

She only manages to confuse me more. “Mercy, I am not a stranger…! You’ve known me for years…?”

“No! No, not  _ you _ .” Her hands lifts to her forehead and for a moment I think she is going to capture tears, but instead her hand slips through her blond locks desperately. “I knew a child - now you are- Pharah, I can’t…! I can‘t do this!”

“I don‘t understand…!” I am trying not to get frustrated. “Mercy?! You are so upset because I have  _ changed _ in over a decade?” I am trying to sound interested and kind rather than confused by how weird this sounds. I genuinely want to understand.

She shakes her head again. “This… this will- this  _ must _ wear off,” she breathes out at the verge of crying. “Or it I will --- destroy everything. It will make everything wrong and painful and… I can’t… not again…”

The lack of coherence in the context of her words is difficult to decipher, but I am still not someone who can just give up. So I let the words linger, try to sort them, try to empathize with her turmoil, dressing myself in the potential meanings to find one that fits. I know I have a hook on her - I just don‘t know what to do with it.

“You can tell me - talk to me, Mercy. What happened that scares you so much? What can I do to help?”

“You  _ don’t _ understand,” she replies harshly, her voice turning from quiet suffering to desperation. I cannot deny that she is right – I do not understand and it is tough enough for me to not feel hurt by how much she is fighting  _ loving  _ me.

“Then talk to me. I  _ want _ to understand.” A bit of frustration creeps into my voice against my will.

She tries to break out again, but this time I grasp her gently across the chest - because my own emotions get the better of me. I had meant to let her go any time she wanted, now I am not. After another moment she gives up and just falls against that embrace, clutching my arm with her hands tightly. It’s like her mind wants to leave, but her body wants to hold on to me - or maybe its the other way round. She is quivering from all the strength this is taking out of her. 

“It can’t be… I’m not capable- it scares me…!” she pushed out.  

Her struggle is so desperate and real; I can do nothing but take pity and kiss her golden hair. “I want to help…“ I mumble. “Please let me help you.“

 

\---

 

I can’t put my world into words – how could anyone understand? We are not even on the same level anymore. Instead, she is way above me and I am spellbound, unable to be even human in her presence. She thinks she is soothing me, kissing my head, but she is setting me alight instead, so that I lose all control.

I want those kisses. I don’t want those kisses. No, I want them.

I hate her for holding me back, though I can‘t imagine what I‘d even be capable of doing if she let me go now. My struggles against the soft force of her arms is a matter of stubbornly keeping my dignity, when a large part of me wants her to keep me together before I can fall apart.

With everything she is doing, she is mocking me without intention. When she turns me around and I follow her guidance, she is just accentuating my problems. This is consuming me beyond rationality. I desperately pine for her touch, her body and her kisses with more ferocity than I have ever felt in my life. It tears pieces out of me, nibs at my sanity and slaughters my willpower. I want her with every fiber of my being and it stings me that I do.  

If humans were capable to retain such vehemence without reaching the point of destruction, maybe I could let myself go. But we are not made that way – we are made to adapt by learning from our mistakes, so we do not commit them over and over again. It is foolish not to learn. My desire is so all-consuming, it detaches me from the past and the future. My head tells my heart that I must be cautious – but my head has never been this weak before.

This intensity is scary and shaking me to the very core. It’s like a comet, burning up in the earth’s atmosphere. Yet, what will be left of the brightness in the end? Nothing but charred stone that left an insignificant dent on the face of the planet. The comet will be nothing of what it used to be. Nothing that burns so brightly can last forever – and its brightness blinds us from the charred destruction we have to expect once the fuel runs out.

I’m willing to  _ give _ all my energy to this woman, like I have done with others before. But this is different – this is stronger than I can allow myself to handle. One day, I might step out of the warmth and realize I am caught up in a blaze that I cannot ever escape from. One day, the fire might disappear and leave me burned and frozen.

I try to find a way out – to put the world into perspective and push my ferocious desires out of my line of sight. But then I realize, with heart-stopping shock, that I am already hungrily kissing her.

I crash out of my thoughts and into the world completely unprepared. Her lips have drawn the life out of me and her tongue puts heavy veils upon my already hazy thoughts. My heart is pounding like it is the first time and my body is drawn to her with irresistible strength. I want this too much to resist and am too scared to run.

I can’t remember whether she said anything before this began, or even asked permission. There is even the possibility that I am the one who started this… but if so, I was not aware of it. It isn‘t fair. Not to her, not to me. I did not want to kiss her, I just didn‘t pay enough attention to stop myself.

My mind fades into nothingness and I can only feel and want her. My throat is tight and my chest feels crushed by her perfect body. I can’t seem to remember how to breathe right and I get dizzy from the lack of oxygen. If her arms weren’t holding me, I’d crumble.

I release a sound, a last attempt to convey my inner torture to anyone who would listen, even though she is the only one here. She pulls back just a bit and descends sweet kisses to the corner of my lips.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can just give it a try.”

Again, my head and heart are at war. Temptation is clawing at me, willing to grasp the sweet lie she offers me, even if it is detached from how things would be in a real world. This mutual agreement to falsely believe in a lack of consequences is such sweet seduction and I cannot resist it. Her hands on my hips are sharing her intrinsic strength and that is enough to hold me upright and keep me going. She tugs on my resolve so expertly - with only the power of her eyes and lips. I follow, helpless and hypnotized.

I had not known the back door was close to her temporary camp here at the base. If I had, I would have avoided it, scared that just the scent of her could send me spiraling downwards. Now, I am pulled inside, only half aware of it until the door behind me noisily slides shut. The soft clank of the metal connecting feels like a blow to my mind. I wake for a second, my heart pounding harder than that of an animal freshly caught in a trap.

“It’s okay,” Pharah repeats and kisses me again. “Just you and me.”

My heart forgets its struggles when her hands run over my sides, taking my shirt with them. The clandestine ambience of the room is just another foolish fabrication of our minds. Yet, it holds up just enough to keep me blinded. A false ambience of safety falls over us with the silence of the secluded room.

In the vicinity of the walls, on top of her sleeping bag, the moment seems to condense, drawing us into a well of vulnerably intimacy. The open corridor offered at least the illusion of a path for escape, even if I would never have managed to take it – but now, we are in our own little trap, unable to flee from ourselves.

I sink down with her, our knees almost touching as we find ground beneath the cushioning fabric. My mind switches its mode, fully engaging in the offer to pretend and diving into hot fire with much relish.

My desire to reveal her and drink in her sight feels like a torturing ache that needs relief so urgently. She leaves space for my stinging needs, even if on the edges, she is hasty and uncoordinated. All I can think about is how it would destroy me to be torn from her now and how scared I am of exactly that feeling.

My skin is burning, allergic to fabric and addicted to her body. I desire and demand freely, with no restraints, watched by a trapped, anxious spirit in the back of my head. Only she can make me forget that dark observer - and I embrace this short-lived antidote to my fears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fondest apologies, friends.
> 
> I drove about 1400km for several job interviews, got a job for which I need to move By January (holy crap!), have to finish my old job gracefully by the end of December, have my birthday coming up and my girlfriend coming over for Christmas. This is also the time (end of the year) where my current job basically turns into a nightmare because there is so much to do. I also scratched up my company car and need it repaired. 
> 
> I did not have the brains to remember I needed to post - and whenever I did, I passed out from exhaustion. Apologies! Please blatantly comment if I forget to upload again! I’m a doofus.

I have no idea whether I am following the right path – but even my strength has boundaries and the sight of her, breathing heavily and clinging to my body, is enough to light more than just a flame.

She is beautiful… more than I could ever have dreamed. It’s not just her looks, her bright eyes and hair, her perfect curves and soft skin… it’s all of her. The way she moves, the way she desires and falls into this… the way she lives the moment and rides that wave of her own lust.

I feel wanted and hotly desired, and I return this feeling with every kiss, every touch and every movement. It’s so perfectly easy – like playing the same song that we both know by heart. Every touch is right, every moment happens at just the right time and we hardly need any words.

And Mercy is plunging into it with all she has, casting away what was keeping her, either willingly or not, and taking all she can while it is offered. And as greedily as she is exploiting me, as generously does she give back – physically and personally. For a blissful, long moment, absolutely nothing is in our way. I wonder whether she can see it – feel it – the promise that lies within this possibility. Just a step further, and maybe she could let go, make this feeling permanent… At times, it’s feels like she has reached that point already, but then a shadow crosses her face and I decide to stay cautious and pin my hopes at a reasonable height.

Her hot, fast breath is sweet in my ear, the image of her moving body a treat to my eyes. I can’t drink her in enough, neither the sight of her, nor all that she embodies. And for the lost moment, she lets me have it all. I can feel the sweet pain as her nails dig into my back, her hot breath against my shoulder, ear and cheek – and it’s perfect, better than anything.

Her body fits my hands like they were made to touch her, her lips and tongue like they were created for my own, personal taste. The music of her moans, cries and whimpers sends my head swirling, as does the perfect shape, drenched in the unmistakable scent of sex and lust.

When we are done, I still have her – just the way we started – in my arms, but with less retaliation for the time being. I brush her golden hair out of the way and kiss her salty neck, my hands crossing over her waist from behind. She fits perfectly, her legs made to lay on top of the one I have rested between hers, her behind is warm against my front.

I kiss her sweetly as our bodies cool from the heat and our lungs begin to relax. My lips grace her shoulder, losing count of how often I have done this. I pull the blanket over us to be in one cocoon with her cooling body.

It has gotten dark outside and there is truly nowhere anyone should go now. I lift my hand to caress her under the blanket – admiring her and silently unloading only the sweetest of feelings upon her still frame. I wait for her to relax, to give in to exhaustion, physical and mental, and close her eyes.

Even then, I keep admiring her, listening to her even breathing and playing with her damp hair. I am trying to cast the worry away, but it is not in my nature to not consider all possibilities. How long is this going to last until those ungraspable worries take hold of her again? Or is this, what we just experienced, stronger? Did it feel as perfect to her as it did to me?

I play the sweet memory back in my mind – her expressions, her words, her movements and the looks from her mesmerizing eyes, trying to find any indication for the future beyond that dance between lust and shadows. But as it is just memory I am relying on, I cannot entirely trust it. Who knows what I could project upon an image or where my mind is filling in any blanks?

Eventually, as the moon starts creeping up high enough to tint everything in soft, white light, I settled down with my lips against her back, right between her shoulder blades. I know I have to wait and hope – and have no other choice in the matter. I always thought I would live in the moment, take what I can get, never knowing what she would be willing to share. But I was fooling myself – you cannot taste something so sweet and not long to keep it.

 

\---

 

My sleep is shallow and fragile. I cannot blame it on learned alertness or the illumination from the moon, as experience tells me otherwise, but I feel almost like I am there with our sleeping bodies this entire time, feeling the thin mattress beneath us, the fabric of the blanket and the warmth of Mercy’s back…

As she stirs, I wake instantly, moving out of the haziness of sleep within a blink. She is gently trying to free herself of my hold on her, scooting out of my embrace. Instinctively, I tighten my grasp and pull her back.

“No…” I whisper. “No running.”

She tenses as she realized I am awake.

“Please…” she replies after a moment. “I can’t stay.”

“And I can’t let you run out into the night,” I reply. She is trying to pull away again and I am at the edge of wondering whether what I am doing is wrong in a very straightforward sense. I am holding her physically against her will, after all. Yet, I don’t let go. Again.

“Mercy…” I try to calm her down. “There is no point in leaving right now. It’s not going to change anything.”THE 

She sucks iN a sharp breath. “You said-“ but more does not come forth. I know what she means to say and I try not to let the guilt take ahold of me. I know I said she could just try – but we both knew that it would leave memories behind and open up possibilities.

I caress her hair, trying to calm her once more because her breath has picked up again. In the moonlight, that fear has returned to her eyes and she is back to fighting with herself.

I take a deep breath – I still cannot understand.

“If I told you about my fears, would that help you?” I ask gently.

She silently shakes her head and I sit up a little to be able to see her face.

“Then what…? Let’s be in this together.”

She swallows, but after a moment, she turns in my arm – for the first time willingly facing me even without a layer of need and lust between us. I look into her beautiful, sad blue eyes and wait for her to gather her thoughts. She contemplates my face, lifts a hand to touch my cheek, my eyebrows and my jaw, but her eyes are frowning as she does so.

“This scares me.”

I am aware of what a fragile little loose end she has offered me and I grasp it with tender care. “What exactly scares you…?”

I can see her eyelids move as she takes in my face again, her frown still not fading. “I’m… out of control… every part of me – I--” she falters again and I kiss her forehead, trying to encourage her, but instead I draw a whimper.

“No… please…!” she begs.

“I know you love me…” I throw at her, feeling stubborn, knowing full well it is the wrong thing to say and that I am risking everything I have so carefully built up to this point. I cannot ignore what this does to me, though - all this was beautiful for a little, carrying all the promises… and yet, she is fighting so hard as if something was terribly wrong about me.

“Then don’t remind me!” she blurts out – raw and honest – probably more than she had ever meant to tell me. I gather her in my arms like a child, caressing her.

“How can I not? I want this as much as you do, Angela.”

She shivers when I say it and her face buries against my shoulder. “You are wrong… I don’t want it!” Her voice is feeble and unstable with pain and it stings my heart not for myself, but out of empathy. She is genuinely scared of the way she feels, even though I don’t understand it.

“Why not?” I whisper against her hair. “Love is a good thing.”

“No!” she replies and her shoulders are shaking.

“No? It is not a good thing?” I have to ask because never in my life have I heard anyone claim that - but wherever this is coming from, it must be from the same place where those strange fears are rooted. But Mercy doesn’t answer, her shoulders are shaking, her face is pressed against me and I realize with some delay that she is crying, though she is trying to hide it.

“Oh, Mercy…” I sigh pitifully, caressing her back and holding her close. I don’t know how I have caused this and whether I should feel like I did something wrong – but I cannot bring myself to believing that going after the person you love, especially when they obviously like you as well, can possibly be so wrong.

I would agree, if she really did not want me and her actions and expressions matched her words. It would make me a terrible person to sit here and throw myself at her. But I am not mistaken.

The tone of my voice is enough to make her realize I am well aware of her tears and she digs her fingers into my shoulders, her little sobs becoming more audible. There is no talking to anyone like this, so all I can do is hold her, hope that the tears will help her feel a little better – maybe good enough to talk to me. There surely is a reason for this, yet I wonder whether she even knows it herself.

I have no clock in my room, but I can feel the morning stir beyond the window. I’m keeping her warm and safe and letting her cry, occasionally try to make her look up to me, but routinely fail at convincing her with my touches and kisses. After a long time, her sobs subside, more from exhaustion, I would bet, then from relief.

Her naked body feels warm under the blanket, my chest wet from her tears – and my heart heavy with the evident pain that caused this and that I cannot understand. I wait a while after she has calmed down, then pull back a little, freeing her face which immediately turns towards the mattress with embarrassment for her tears and pain.

I scoot down to be on eyelevel with her and kiss a salty cheek, showing her that I am both aware and okay with the state she is in. There is something there that has carved a deep wound in her. Nobody unhurt would reject love itself so bitterly. I wait for her to accept and allow the soft kisses on her salty cheek before I speak. “Does love really hurt you this much, Mercy?” I whisper.

“It’s an illusion,” she replies. “An happiness that elevates you upon a cliff… just to throw you down.” Her voice is bitter. “I don’t want it.”

I listen carefully, trying to fathom the depth from which such cruel and harsh words might come – such bitterness from someone who I have known to be sweet and caring. “Who hurt you so?” I ask, finally drawing my conclusions. “Who put you in so much pain that you would think this?”

There is a sarcastic snort from her, but it doesn’t quite mask the pain behind it. “Does it matter? It might as well be you.”

I bite my lower lip, consciously aware that this stab at me comes from someplace different - an attempt to push me off by hurting me. It is is difficult not to feel attacked by her words, despite knowing they don‘t come from her heart. “I wouldn’t hurt you, if I could avoid it,” I assure her.

She snorts again. “But you can’t avoid it.” She switched from pain to sarcasm so quickly because pain didn‘t take her (or me) where she wanted to be taken.

Ignoring her accusatory demeanor, I let honest confusion take ahold of me as I reply: “Why? What am I doing that would make it likely that I hurt you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she defends. “You are foolish to want me – and I am even more stupid to be wanting you. We might both be gone tomorrow – or one of us, leaving nothing but pain and loss behind.”

I try to catch a glimpse of her eyes – they are bitter, damp with tears and she is frowning, the expression distorting her features so much, it worries me on a very deep level. I try to caress her brows to soften the expression, but to no avail.

“Are you scared of me leaving you?” I ask, seeing a short shift in her eyes. “And if you say in ways that I cannot avoid… do you mean death, Mercy?” She is not easy to figure out, but here I am with her a little softened by her emotions and exhaustion, with a chance to get to the bottom of this – and I won’t shy away from that. She doesn’t reply, but she tenses, becoming completely still, her eyes now unmoving. “Ya amar… are you worried I could die?”

Her eyes fill with tears – against her will, evidently, but I put her fears on the table with such raw directness, she cannot escape facing them. Getting so close to the bottom of this is partially a relief, but it also weighs heavy on me: If there is one thing I cannot promise, it is that I won’t die. She is right that I, especially, can’t avoid hurting her if that was to happen. I am habitually going into fights – and if her greatest fear is losing the person she loves she is right that I should be the last person for her to love. But she does love me, regardless – but now I see why it is against her will.

Yet, so many people have to live with that fear, daily. Some with more reason, some with less. There are terminal illnesses, wars and battles everywhere and in most places, or so it always seemed to me, love tends to be stronger – or strong enough to live with that risk for the sake of all the good sides that it has. Why isn’t Mercy’s?

I reflect upon her words – all of them. The incoherent ones from last night and the ones at the fountain after the bar.

‘It will make everything wrong and painful and… I can’t… not again…’ For some reason, this sentence of hers sticks out in my mind. ‘Not again’. Something must have happened – maybe in the last fifteen years – that has left such an impact on her, she is afraid of feeling it again.

I haven’t heard of her being married or widowed, I haven’t even heard of her going out with anyone – but would I have? Our lives were separated and such details were not likely to reach me. And even if, if it wasn’t extremely recent – and our conversations have gone far enough to establish at least this much – she should have recovered. Such strong impacts are only made by fresh wounds or wounds that leave permanent scars, such as those inflicted upon us in our childhood.

\---

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, working full time and searching for a new place to live and it is so unfruitful. At least I have a safe job now, but it does require a move of around 400km distance.   
> I can - thanks to the company I'll be working for - have the moving done for me. But I need to find a place to move TO first. Preferably by Jan 1st. I'm spending every free hour either browsing the housing/renting market or driving to see places. Anyway - probably explains the delays, does not excuse them.

I have always been taught how to be kind and friendly and how to care. Ultimately, this made me chose my profession. It‘s said that good doctors put their heart into their work and their patients, but that isn‘t entirely true. I strive to be the best and most empathetic doctor I can be. I have seen many - too many - come and go. The many people I meet fill my world like dots on a grit. With every encounter, another dot ist added and slowly begins to fade. All these encounters tint my life with an unsharp, uneven veil on the one hand, but also an easy possibility to hop from dot to dot if it so pleases me, never lingering.

I flatten out everything I have to give, so that I can encompass everyone I meet and it fills and busies me, wins me favors and fits me with a reputation for kindness. I accept the fleeting time frame of every encounter and embrace it for the superficial connections it provides.

Yes, I was close with the members of Overwatch back then - shooting with Ana and calling her captain, helping Jesse with his arm, giving Fareeha my attention when she had something to show or ask me. I valued friendship, especially outside of my peer group. I still do. It helps not being part of the same league - it helps befriending someone who cannot be in the same profession or can, by age alone, not connect with you on a generational level. It helps keeping a little distance.

I‘ve had my fair share of relationships as well, ending them habitually and strategically whenever the certainty of physical distance was about to be threatened. Whenever the attachment was suffocating me. I did not put much thought in the futures there could be or could have been because I wasn‘t calculating on such a future. It has served me well.

It has served me well to follow attraction, but never fall. It has served me well to be a good colleague, but not a friend. It has served me well to find companions that could only walk the same path with me for so long before we had to part.

What has not served me well is dependency - professionally, emotionally or out of sheer helplessness. What has not served me well is giving my all, only to see the fruits of that dedication crushed into a million pieces in front of my eyes. What has not served me well is feeling any kind of deep love for anyone.

“Ya‘amar… are you worried I could die?“ 

I tense, I can‘t help it, thus giving her an answer without wanting to. “Stop,“ I beg. It must sound so ridiculous to her. I‘m a doctor, for crying out loud, fighting death, winning and losing, is my profession. I‘m a battlefield healer… succeeding and failing against death is my call. 

She caresses my head to comfort me and it makes everything worse. “Who have you lost to leave you this hurt?“ she asks.

“Everyone,“ I cry with an air of mockery. The only exception I come up with is irrelevant. It simply does not count, if you defy death before you care about the person. 

“That‘s not true...“ Pharah objects gently. “Look at everyone who‘s here. Lena… Winston - even Jack.“ She pauses. “Me.“

She is not wrong, of course. She only proves that she cannot understand. And I realize that I don‘t want her to. I don‘t want her to bamboozle my head by arguing my pain away. I am  _ not _ wrong - loving in these times leads to pain and it is better not to love in the first place. It‘s better to keep your acquaintances - as sad as that is - on an emotional platform where they are expendable. Sure it would hurt me to lose Winston or Lena… it hurt to lose Jack, even though he has returned. After all, it made not differences for the emotions at the time. It hurt to lose Ana - and still does. Whatever I may have felt for Ana - a friendship on a deep level, the devotion one might have to a mentor, it was not the same as truly loving anyone. The pain was bitter, but not unbearable. Yet, it was the maximum pain I am now willing to endure for losses. 

But what do I reply? She‘ll only prod more if I remind her she cannot understand, and I don‘t want her to. I want her to accept that she needs to let me go - and help me leave. But she is stubborn and won‘t give up - I can tell that much.

I swallow my tears and wipe at my face. I try to sober up from this emotional roller coaster. If I want to get out of this, I need to at least pretend to be stronger. “It‘s morning. I think I can go home now,“ I say with a calmness that even surprises me.

“What? …“ She did not expect that, it seems. “Mercy, no - we-“

“We what?“ I ask, a little more coldly than I meant to. “I don‘t want- I‘m not going to-“ Well, what? Talk this out? Tell you? Make you understand? I pull the only card I have left. “You say you love me…“ I pause. “If you do, then let me go.“ I sit up with my back to her so I do not have to see her face. I can feel how she sits up as well, alert.

She swallows and it makes me want to curl up. “I swear I would, Mercy. Really - if for a moment I could believe that it is really what you want.“ She touches my shoulder and I want to shrug the touch away - but I can‘t. Even though I am not looking at her, I can hear that her pain at my rejection has reached her voice now. “Ya’amar… I cannot promise you I won‘t die. Nobody can - nobody in and outside of war. It‘s what everyone in this world has to worry about… and yet… so many people choose to love despite all that.“ She does not say it, but the ‘Can‘t you?!‘ is hanging in the air.

I know I am hurting her. I don‘t want to hurt her or me, but I have no choice. The best I can do is soften my words: “I choose not to.“

She lets out a faint breath and I feel the shudder in it. I‘ve had too many patients, too many family members I had to tell the inevitable to, to not know this is the sound someone makes who is trying not to cry just yet because there are yet important questions to be asked. 

“So many people find strength in love… even the strength to fight harder to stay alive…“

My fist clenches. “Staying alive is _ not _ a choice, Pharah!“ I yell at the edge of new emotions. I grasp at the faintest one of them - anger - and finally find the strength to get up. I latch on to itdesperately, like dying flames to a trickle of fuel.

I grab my clothes and start hastily getting into them, the cool air and decisive movements doing wonder to my resoluteness. 

“I said  _ fighting _ \- fighting to stay alive! Merry, please- don‘t!“ 

I can‘t look up. I know she is crying. The only reason I am not is because my hope that I can manage to overcome myself to get out of this situation is keeping me under control. I‘m almost there. I am already putting on my shoes.

“There are battles you cannot win, Pharah. And you are seeking them out!“

“Then I’ll do something else!“ she yells desperately.

“No! Look, it doesn‘t matter, Pharah!“ I finally look at her, her tears, her expression, ready to break my heart because I am breaking hers. “It won‘t change anything. I cannot-“ I threaten to falter. “I cannot  _ do this _ .“

She rubs at her nose, quickly, briefly. When she speaks, her voice is neither angry, nor pleading. It‘s almost like she is giving up. “At least say it. Say what you cannot do - and look at me when you do. I‘ll accept it, then, and let you go.“ She pauses and adds, heavily: “I promise.“

I look at her. If that‘s all it takes to put a lid on this whole affair… to allow me to move on... 

She watches me, my eyes - her dark ones piercing my blue ones, bracing herself for the inevitable. She is stronger than to crumble right here and there, but her integrity is so intrinsic, she would never go back on her word. I had not noticed that she, too, had put on some clothes - I presume to be able to follow me, should I run. Well - up to this moment. Because she has agreed to not chase me, literally or figuratively, if I clarify once and for all that I do not want her love - and that I do not want to lover her in return.

I pick up my bag and take a breath, looking sternly at her. We have created a moment where everything is on the table, every weight on the scale, except for one which is in my hands. I have the power to tip this scale in the direction I want it to tip. I‘ll break her heart, and there are rough times to come, but it will be done and dealt with - one of those decisions that create relief and leave a dull ache behind that can fade away over time. 

All I have to do, is tell her.

I turn around, open the door, and leave.

—-

I crumble. I can‘t take it - the tension, the contradictions, the impossibility of meeting a demand to stay alive for certain to be loved. And not knowing- not even guessing as to why she is so hurt and scared. 

I sink to my knees and fall into her scent which lingers in the blankets, in the single hairs she left on the pillow and whatever else she left behind of herself. A part of my mind tells me to be relieved that she couldn‘t say it, but it‘s like other parts are going insane, thinking about how this means the struggle is not yet over and how it is too much already.

She does want me, though. She just hates herself for it for reasons I cannot grasp. I don‘t know what to do - how to understand her, how to turn her mind, how to make her see what she is missing. It hits me so hard in that moment that while I might be heartbroken for my own sake, it‘s so much more painful to know what we could be, what we could give to each other, what I could do for her, if she only let me.

I cannot remember when I have last felt so powerless, hurt and desperate. Not any mission, not any event in my life has me left this utterly at odds with the world. It‘s not only that I do not know how to approach this massive obstacle in our way, it‘s everything. How do I face the others - what have they heard of the fight, the sex, the tears? How do I face her again - which I will have to latest at tonight‘s meeting, if she chooses to appear.

How do I help her out of this hole she has so determinedly dug for herself without being sucked in with her? How do I know whether whatever I am doing is going to be the right thing? I was so sure of what I was doing halfway through this and now I am at a loss.

I have to talk to someone. Mercy might choose to fight her battles alone, even if she should know better. But I can‘t anymore.


End file.
